


Blackheart

by Somewhat_Inspired



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1800s ghost in modern times, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Child Murder, Forgiveness, Hate, I like making fictional characters suffer, Innocence, Loss of Innocence, Loss of Trust, Male-Female Friendship, Multiple correlating oneshots, Not a true chapter story, Oops wrong tag, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, POV First Person, POV Original Character, School Project, Senpai Notice Me, Stupid ADD, antique shop, creative writing, i'm sorry i suck at tagging, prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 13:04:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11714967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somewhat_Inspired/pseuds/Somewhat_Inspired
Summary: My whole world is burning. Flames dance and roar ravenously as they consume the house. They’re insatiable, destroying everything within their path, leaving nothing but ashes and ruined memories in their wake. I simply watch from my spot in the middle of it all. I’m not afraid. I know I am not in danger. After all, everyone knows the dead cannot die.A project for Creative Writing in which we had to create a character and write little snippets about them based off of prompts given to the class. Ideas and constructive criticism are welcome!





	1. Martin Information Sheet

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, guys! So, I took a Creative Writing class my senior year of high school, and one of the most significant parts of that class involved creating a character and writing little snippets about them based off a prompt that would be given to the class. Then, we would read our stories out loud. It was by far my favorite part of the class, and I got some really good feedback from my peers. However, I decided to post my stuff on here to see if I could get any more criticism. I know it's not great, but I would really appreciate any helpful comments ya'll could give. Also, I will be adding extra info in some of the notes and in an extra chapter since I didn't have time to add them in the actual story yet. I'm sorry, but I just think it will make it a bit easier to understand with some backstory since this is mostly an experiment. Thanks for bearing with me!

We had to make an information sheet and a picture of our character and show it to the class before we started writing the story. I can't show the picture, but here was the information.

**Name:** Martin John Greyer

**Age:** 11

**Gender:** Male

**Place of birth:** Lynchburg, Virginia

**Present home:** Norfolk, Virginia

**Type of home:** Antique shop

**Ethnicity:** White

**Height, Weight, Physical shape:** Martin’s been told that he was a bit small for his age. However, being a ghost, he is weightless.

**Eye color:** Brown

**Hair quality/color/style:** Rich brunette hair in a neat bowl-like cut.

**Unusual feature:** He has dimples.

**Personality traits:** Observant, mischievous, kind, vengeful, playful.

**3 adjectives his best friends would use to describe him:** Quiet, intelligent, polite.

**Biggest regret:** Trusting his uncle.

**Marital status:** Single.

**Children?** He’s a kid himself, so no.

**Parents/siblings:** His father was John Greyer, and his mother was Martha Greyer. No siblings.

**Pets:** Although it’s not really his, he likes the shop owner’s cat, Pepper. She doesn’t care if he pets her. (That’s because she’s, y’know, a cat.)

**Current occupation:** None (unless you count haunting the shop and scaring the crap out of most of its residents a job).

**Dream occupation:** Though he secretly desired to become a writer, he always knew he was to someday take over the family business.

**Education:** The amount you would expect a young aristocrat from the early nineteenth century to have received.

**Medical conditions:** Dead.

**Rituals/habits:** He frequently enjoys moving between all the various objects in the antique shop.

**Favorite clothing style:** He’s partial towards long-sleeved shirts.

**Driving style:** He’s ridden in a horse-drawn wagon before, but has never driven one.

**Sins/virtues:** While sweet and playful around children, Martin can be very mean-spirited (no pun intended) towards adults, especially if he feels threatened.

**Secret passion(s):** Writing.

**Main frustration or obstacle:** Despite pretty much avenging his own death, Martin doesn’t understand why he can’t move on to the afterlife. He wants to go, but it’s as if he’s trapped on Earth.

**Favorite sayings/motto:** “Silence is golden.”

**Other info:** He was born in 1815 in Lynchburg to a rich couple that owned a tobacco plantation and shipping company. Though well cared for, he was often lonely since he wasn’t usually allowed to play with the other kids in the area (most of them were of a lower social status than him). When his father died mysteriously one year, it was decided that Martin’s uncle would take over the family business until Martin (the true heir) reached the proper age to run it himself. Martin was very close to his uncle and almost viewed him as a sort of fatherly replacement figure. Unfortunately, this sentiment was apparently not mutual, as in 1826, his uncle poisoned him to ensure his own total possession of the company. Enraged and betrayed, Martin haunted the mansion and forced the company to gradually go bankrupt via crop failures and other calamities. Ever since then, he has been trapped as a poltergeist, only able to communicate through the inanimate objects he possesses. He currently resides in an antique shop in modern-day Norfolk. He often plays pranks on the owner, Donavan Frederick, who is a descendent of his uncle. (His uncle was unmarried, but had an affair with Martin’s chief caretaker, Phillis Frederick - yeah, I know, stupid name, but she isn't in this thing much.)


	2. Journal Entry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our first real assignment was to write a journal entry either about or from the point of view of our character's family. I tried to make the writing sound both young (since Martin, my character, is eleven) and somewhat sophisticated (since he is the son of a wealthy plantation owner and would have been well educated). Hopefully, I succeeded. Anyway, this looked better and less short in the word document since I was able to put it in a cool font, but oh well. I put it all in italics to simulate the writing. I hope it looks okay. Sorry, guys. '^^

_November 28, 1826_

_Today marks the anniversary of my parents’ deaths. I can hardly believe they’ve really been gone for six years now. It seems only yesterday that I watched them go out for that sleigh ride. The only reason I wasn’t brought along was that Mother and Father believed the winter wind would be too chilly for me. At a mere five years old, I was quite a sickly thing back then. My health has since improved, but the hole left in my heart has not. I love Uncle Rolph, but often I find myself wishing my parents were still here. I miss the way my father would smile at me and take me down to visit the docks in the springtime. I miss how my mother would fret if I stayed outside for too long and would tuck me into bed at night. I even miss how they would scold me whenever I played jokes on my nanny, Phillis. Things seemed so much more complete then. Now, it’s just me and Uncle Rolph. Though we’re nonetheless a family, it still hurts to imagine what it would be like if Mother and Father were still alive. Perhaps then, I wouldn’t be so lonely._

* * *

 

_December 4, 1826_

_I turned eleven years old today. Uncle Rolph threw a fantastic party for me. Phillis and a few other servants attended it. The cake was delicious – and vanilla, my favorite – and I received a new well of ink and quills for my journal. It was a fun evening._

* * *

 

_December 13, 1826_

_It’s a good thing Uncle Rolph was there to take control of things when my parents passed away. I was far too young to take care of the company on my own then. Uncle Rolph claimed total ownership of the family business until I am old enough to inherit it. He’s so amazing. He’s almost always hunched over his desk, working late hours into the night for the benefit of everyone here. I’ve never met anyone so dedicated and kind. I want to be just like him when I grow up! That way the plantation will definitely be in good hands._

_Speaking of Uncle Rolph, he has been acting rather queer lately. He’s been almost distant, only half listening whenever I speak to him and becoming increasingly indulgent in his work, even more so than usual. Earlier today, I peeked into his study and spotted him at his desk with his back turned towards me, wordlessly staring at the pocket watch I had given him as a gift a little over a year ago. He seemed to be deep in thought. I do not wish to meddle in his affairs, so I say nothing. Still, I wish he would tell me what’s bothering him. What could possibly be on his mind?_


	3. Ashes to Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our second prompt was about scent. I think our teacher worded it something like "a scent that stands out to your character." We got little pieces of paper from a perfume magazine that were supposed to be scented (they were so old that most of them just smelled like paper, though) and we had to write about it. I couldn't find a scent, though, so I just made mine burning wood since I'm just totally normal like that. Anyway, yay, we get real titles and angst!

            My whole world is burning. Flames dance and roar ravenously as they consume the house. They’re insatiable, destroying everything within their path, leaving nothing but ashes and ruined memories in their wake. I simply watch from my spot in the middle of it all. I’m not afraid. I know I am not in danger. After all, everyone knows the dead cannot die.

            It’s almost hypnotic, the manner in which the blaze swallows my home. It’s clean, efficient, effective. I might have even liked it under different circumstances.

            I walk forward through the dining room and wall of flame. Anyone else would have been killed by now, be it by the smoke or the inferno itself. I am untouched, though, so I have nothing to fear. I am not anyone else.

            It isn’t long before I find what I’m searching for, and I pause and look down. Sprawled out on the floor in a rather undignified position is Uncle Rolph, still as night and charred nearly as black. Tendrils of dark smoke snake up from the occasional flame still feeding off his body. I only watch.

            How does it feel, Uncle Rolph? How does it feel to be turned against and left for dead? How does it feel to be consumed by pain and slowly have your life be extinguished? It doesn’t feel very good, does it? I know. I can still feel the sensation of liquid agony running through my veins, stealing my breath and life away.

            You took it from me, you know. Everything. My life, the company – which you never planned on returning – and even my parents. That sleigh incident wasn’t an accident, was it? Just like how my cough medicine was not ‘accidentally’ tampered with. To think I didn’t see it all sooner…I’m so thick-headed.

            But I won’t be played for a fool again. I made sure of that when I killed off all the crops. No amount of labor would make up for all the resulting lost profits. It’s unfortunate that you couldn’t seem to grasp that notion. I saw you out in the fields after I died, personally ensuring the slaves were working harder than ever before. It proved too much for several of them, and they were upset. By the time February rolled about, a full-scale revolt had been staged and executed. They set alight what was still standing of the plantation and left your battered body in the middle of it all. Now, no one will inherit my parents’ company.

            The firelight glints off something next to Uncle Rolph and my eyes are drawn over to it. It’s the pocket watch I gave him. The object is broken, damaged both from heat exposure and from the struggle that occurred in this very room just an hour or so ago. It’s long since ceased ticking. The trinket used to be so pretty, all glittering silver and intricately carved designs. Now it’s an ashen, scratched, hideous mess. I hate it.

            Rages surges up within me and I move to kick the object away. I forget that I am not capable of physically touching anything. That is, until my foot connects with the broken watch. A sudden jolt rushes through my body and I can feel my soul being attached to the trinket (not unlike a puppet tied to strings). I don’t understand and feel very afraid.

            The watch clunks to the ground again, directly into a small wisp of flame this time. Instantly I feel hot, as if my very spirit is on fire. I try to scream, but no sounds escape my lips. I swear I’m choking. Before I know it, the world goes dark, and the last thing I register is the odor of burning wood.


	4. Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our third prompt involved our character losing their vision. Poor Martin is confused and angry in this. Oh, and I'm sorry all of these are so short; we had to read these out loud in class, so each snippet had to be fairly brief. Here's hoping I was able to put enough info in each one without sounding weird.

            I sleep for a very, very long time. Finally, I wake up and find myself in a very strange place – from what I can see, anyway. My head feels as if it has been filled with the cotton my father once tried to grow and my vision is blurred. From what my sight can distinguish from my ambiguous surroundings, I am inside a small glass box displayed upon a counter. All around me outside of my cramped prison appear to be various objects (only some of which I barely recognize) of alternating sizes and the counter below me containing even smaller trinkets. I think I can faintly make out the ticking of a clock somewhere. The walls of the joint appear to be made of brick.

            But…why am I here? This doesn’t look like Heaven. I took care of Uncle Rolph and any other unfinished business I might have had. I’m not supposed to still be here. Have I done something wrong? Am I not going to Heaven after all? Or have I failed in offing my killer…?

            A door loudly squeaks open and I hear footsteps and a masculine voice. A man walks into my line of sight and…no. _No._ That brunette hair, that build, that complexion…! It can’t be! How is he still here?! Why?!

            Do you have more than one life or something, Uncle? Are you some sort of cat? Even if you are, then it matters not. I will extinguish all of them and never rest until not one speck of your wretched existence remains.

            Frantically, I lunge, but right as I am about to reach Uncle Rolph a powerful force not unlike a leash jerks me back. Whirling around, I see the pocket watch leering mockingly back at me. I see red. _I. Am not. A dog._

            A wave of spiritual energy is sent towards the watch and the glass case imprisoning it shatters. However, the watch itself is entirely unharmed and feels like I’m hitting my bare fist against a stone wall. My vision flashes white for a few seconds and disorients me; I swear I’ve been struck by lightning. I hear barking and stunned exclamations, but I pay them little mind. All that matters to me is that I’m trapped and I cannot escape.

            Despair washes over me, and I watch as my world fades to black.


	5. Two-faced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our fourth prompt was meant to include a flashback, if I remember correctly. So, this part takes place back when Martin was still alive. Yay, cringey attempts at using nineteenth-century slang! :p It was fun looking it up, though. There's a good chance all of these were wrong, but...
> 
> Grit = guts  
> Meater = coward  
> High-falutin = snobby, stuck-up  
> Mosey = saunter or shuffle along
> 
> Also, the two guys call Martin "Bucky" since he's rich and...well, because reasons.

            I’m warm. Warmth spreads from my core all over my body as I go to meet my friends. This is the happiest I’ve been in a long while. At last I have ones who I get to see often and are around my age. Of course, they are twelve years old while I am nine, but that does not matter. I still have to keep this friendship a secret, though, because I’m not supposed to associate with folks like them. It has something to do with their families not having much money. I don’t completely understand it. Nevertheless, they willingly speak and play with me, so I care not what differences might exist between me and them. Those walls are unimportant anyhow.

            I put on a coat and sneak outside every other day. Phillis seems to be increasingly preoccupied lately, so the act of stealing away for a couple hours is not challenging. Over the years I’ve perfected the art of plucking a few extra sweets from the kitchen without anyone noticing, so I’m even able to stow a handful of peppermint drops in my pocket for my friends.

* * *

 

            I’m cold. I’m on my knees. The snow on the ground soaks through my pants and chills me to the bone, but it is not the source of my shivering. My gloved hand is pressed to my right eye, but it does little to soothe the throbbing and sharp sting. I’m certain it will develop a nasty bruise. Tears well up as I look up with my one good eye, facing the duo smirking down at me.

            “W…Why?” I manage to ask. “Why did you do that…?” They only laugh. My voice only slightly stronger, I say again, “Why did you hit me? I didn’t do anything wrong…”

            The taller of the two boys ceases his laughing and says, “What’s wrong, Bucky? Got no grit? Thought you were made of stronger stuff. Lil’ meater.” He reaches into his dirty pants pocket and retrieves one of my peppermint drops before popping it into his mouth.

            “But why did you hit me?” I begin to get angry. “Answer me!”

            The shorter of the two crosses his arms. “Y’know, folks like you are real annoyin’.”

            The anger dissipates, and I ask, “What?”

           “Don’tcha got a brain?” The boy responds, “We was messin’ with ya. Ya ain’t good at sports. Ya ain’t funny. Ya _really_ ain’t bright. The only reason anyone puts up with ya is ‘cause yer old man was filthy rich. Why else would we hang with some high-falutin rich kid like you?”

            The first boy finishes his sweet with a loud _crunch_. “We ain’t puttin’ up with ya anymore, Bucky. Best t’ mosey off now t’ yer place. Don’t come back; yer borin’ as all get out.”

            For several moments I’m frozen in place with shock. I cannot comprehend what’s occurring right before my eyes. Everything had been perfectly dandy between us until they suddenly struck me. I cannot recall saying or doing anything that would have provoked them, and I’m dumbfounded.

            The older boys get impatient and shove me. “Go on!” They jeer, “Scram!”

            The tears start to fall, and I run, the sound of their laughter lingering in my ears.

            From then on, I don’t make any more friends.


	6. Silent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our fifth prompt required our character to use their intuition. I don't know if this counted, but here's hoping it did. I wonder if this story will actually get noticed on here? I doubt it will, but...eh, a talentless girl can dream.

            Across from me sits a small, cream-colored dog. It doesn’t like me; I can tell by the manner in which it often growls and bares its teeth in my direction. Its owner (whom I’ve come to realize is not my uncle, but a man who possesses an uncanny resemblance to him) is not around to chide it into silence.

            Fortunately, in the month or so since I regained consciousness and my mind and vision finally cleared, I’ve found a way to temporarily escape my silver cage. The wall behind the counter on which I rest contains many shelves and hanging trinkets such as dolls, puppets, the odd small instruments, and numerous other gadgets that I’ve yet to learn the names of. As long as I am cautious, I can move into one of these other objects for a brief period of time, granting me greater mobility. Sometimes I am even able to reach just beyond my usual range of movement. However, the fact that the distance I may go is limited remains unchanged; if I stray too far, my invisible bond to the watch will always pull me back. It’s frustrating to say in the least, but there is the rare upside.

            Carefully, I creep into a nearby puppet which sits diagonally from me on a shelf with its strings daintily laid out beside it. It’s a strange looking thing with its pale wood body, black velvet fabric fashioned into a dapper suit and hat, and empty glass eyes. Taking care not to fall off the shelf (lest I risk damaging my toy), I make the puppet tilt its head slightly to the side as if to size the tiny canine across the desk from me up. The animal’s dark eyes remain intensely trained in my direction and it snarls and barks. I open and close the puppet’s mouth, producing a clacking sound as if it’s laughing mockingly. At this, the mutt flattens its ears and begins jumping at the counter blocking its way and barking wildly.

            Then I hear a small bell chime, signaling someone’s entry from the front of the store. Instantly I return to the watch, and the puppet I left so suddenly limply tips over onto its side with a soft thump. Meanwhile, the canine continues to bark and frantically paw at the counter.

            “Hey, get down!” I hear the shop owner, Mr. Frederick, yell. He swiftly approaches the dog and scolds, “Bad dog! You know you aren’t supposed to scratch up anything! No!” He grabs the now whining mutt by the collar and leads it away, muttering, “Jeez, what has gotten into you these past few weeks?” Once the animal is secured, Mr. Frederick turns to someone behind him, and I notice a girl that looks to be around my age, if a tad younger. She resembles the man, with chocolate brown hair, light brown eyes, and pale skin.

            “Sorry about that, sweetie,” Mr. Frederick apologizes, “Mocha here has been being a little knucklehead recently.” Mocha growls towards me once more, but a sharp reprimand from his owner quiets the dog.

            “It’s okay,” the girl responds.

            “Anyway, what do you think of the place? I know it’s been a while since you’ve last visited, but I’ve been able to make some renovations to the store in the past couple years,” The girl merely nods in a taciturn manner in response, and the man continues, “Yeah, and the upstairs looks even better! You should see your new room! It’s all pink and flowery and- girls your age still like that stuff, right? That’s okay, right? I can change it if you don’t like it.”

            “No, Uncle Don, it’s fine.” She looks almost upset for a moment, but the brief flicker in her eyes vanishes before I can be certain. Instead, her attention turns to her surroundings, and she mindlessly fiddles with the handle of her bag as she scans the room. Eventually, her gaze lands and remains in my direction, and I nearly start before remembering that I am invisible.

            Mr. Frederick almost frowns, but shoos Mocha away and quickly brightens up once more and gently takes the girl’s luggage from her. “Here, lemme grab this for you.” He curiously follows her gaze and grins wider when he sees the watch. “Yeah, that’s one of the newer additions I added to this little place. Just got that thing cleaned up a little over a month ago. I haven’t gotten the chance to try and fix it, though; it’s a shame, that watch is a fine piece of work, and a bit of research I did even suggests that it belonged to my great-great-great-great-great grandmother.” He beams at the girl, adding, “and your great-great-great-great-great- _great_ grandmother. Some old couple in Lynchburg just happened to have it collecting dust in their attic. I’m surprised no one threw it away, to be honest; it’s obviously seen its fair share of years and was damaged in some sort of fire, but hey, I’m not complaining. Cool, right? In a way, it’s a rediscovered family treasure.”

            The girl only nods, her eyes still intently trained in my direction. I somehow get the impression she isn’t looking at the watch itself, and I actually begin to feel a bit uncomfortable. Thankfully, Mr. Frederick pats her on the back and begins to lead her towards the stairwell near the back of the store.

            “C’mon,” he says, “I’ll give you the full rundown of what I’ve found about it so far later. Right now let’s get you settled into your new room.” The girl remains in place and only follows when after he calls, “Sadie, c’mon.” Casting one last glance at the counter, Sadie walks upstairs with Mr. Frederick. As the sound of the man’s voice and footsteps begin to fade, I am left wondering what exactly is in store for me and why I feel so conflicted.


	7. Peppermint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our sixth prompt involved taste and hearing. This has nothing to do with anything, but Martin was partially inspired by Edwin and Enoch Mandus from the Amnesia: A Machine for Pigs horror game. You only get to know the characters through journal entries strewn about the scenery, but the contrast between their father's madness and the twins' innocence is haunting. I wanted to show a bit of that dynamic in Martin's character with his childishness and deadly rage at war. I'm just not sure I got the "deadly rage" part properly written, though. For the most part, he seems content with simply sulking.

            “Come on, come out,” I hear Sadie urge. I remain motionless, but still she taps on the glass encasing me. “I know you’re there,” the girl continues, “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you; I just want to see you.”

            After several minutes of this, I’ve grown irritated. Can’t she see I don’t want her here? It’s terribly rude to keep knocking on someone’s door when they’re not interested in visitors. I’m aware this is not my house, but…the principle still holds up. Nonetheless, she really should have given up by now.

            Finally, I hear a sigh and footsteps as the girl leaves. I almost feel relieved, but only a few minutes pass before I suddenly hear the light tick of something hitting the counter next to me. I glance over. It’s a candy cane. Sadie retracts her hand and looks in my direction eagerly.

            When nothing happens, she gingerly scoots the sugary treat closer and says, “This is for you. Do you like peppermint? We have blueberry ones, too, if you want; I don’t really like those, though.”

            I only stare at the offering. I try to remember the taste of mint (it used to be my favorite), but memories of that nature have become faded and dull. Several moments pass, and Sadie sits at the foot of the counter with a huff. Mr. Frederick’s cat, Pepper, strolls up to her and crawls into her lap.

            As she strokes its soft fur, she sighs and says, “Uncle Don is trying so hard. I know he does his best, but-“ Sadie shakes her head, “He isn’t Mommy and Daddy.”

            I listen, although I don’t know why she is telling me this. I’m not even certain if she can actually see me, though that almost seems to be the case. Even if that were so, we’re not friends, so I’m not sure why she would choose to confide in me of all people.

            Pepper purrs as Sadie quietly scratches her ears, and I once more turn my gaze towards the candy cane. Though I appreciate the gesture, I don’t know how she expects me to eat it; I don’t have a mouth. Quickly, I knock the treat off the counter and it hits the floor with a tap. Sadie’s head snaps up at the noise, and she picks up the rejected treat as she stands up, holding Pepper in the other arm.

            “Um, I guess you don’t want anything right now, but...you can keep it.” She pauses, sets the candy cane back on the counter, then says, “Uh, I’ll see you later, I guess?” Taking the cat with her, she calls, “Bye,” and disappears upstairs.

            Once I’m left alone with my thoughts and the ticking of a grandfather clock, I glance back towards the candy cane. Quietly, I scoot it closer to me.


	8. Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The seventh and final prompt our teacher gave us was to finish the writing by asking or answering a question (or something like that). So, I used it to finally make Martin a little less grumpy.

            Weeks pass, and I grow increasingly bored. There is only so much one can do for entertainment when he is confined to a small area. I try to amuse myself with the puppet (with which I continue to goad Mocha), the cat (which occasionally leaps just close enough that I can pet her), and messing with Mr. Frederick. The last option is particularly riveting; though I am simply making things fall over and tapping on the glass counter, the man’s stupefied expression is relief enough to briefly assuage the complete and utter boredom I feel. However, the sense of emptiness always returns.

            Sadie occasionally breaks my monotonous routine, though. Despite my ignoring her, she continues to pester me into finally acknowledging whatever she has done to garner my attention. Does she not have better things to do? I know she goes to school during the day; does she not have other things to concern herself with?

            One afternoon, she comes trudging into the shop with a small frown and a dark air about her. Mr. Frederick is in the back with a customer, so he is unable to see her state as he shouts a greeting towards her. Sadie responds in an artificially chipper tone before approaching me. She opens my case, grabs the watch, and hurries upstairs.

            As soon as she shuts her door and tosses her book bag to the ground, she snatches up one of her stuffed animals and clutches it to her chest. She slides down to the floor, wedging herself in a remote corner between her bed and an entire box full of toys. Holding back cries, Sadie buries her face in the fluffy pink animal. In her left hand, she tightly squeezes my watch.

            Stunned, I can only watch as her tears begin to stain the stuffed bunny. I don’t know what in the world happened or how I’m supposed to react (or if I’m even supposed to react at all). Thankfully, Sadie eventually calms a tad bit and shakily apologizes.

            “I-I’m sorry, it’s just…” she wipes her eyes with her sleeve, “They don’t like me. I’m being nice, but they don’t care and I feel so lonely and I miss Mom and Dad and I just…” She begins crying again, and I notice something poking out of her hastily discarded bag. It’s a sheet of paper containing a drawing, though it’s difficult to make out through the tears and wrinkles (as it had clearly been crumpled up at one point). It looked like it might have been depicting several kids and a figure of what must have been Sadie. Within seconds, it all becomes clear to me.

            “Why did they do that?” Sadie manages to ask through her sniffles. “All I did was try to be friends…”

            I observe her for a few moments before transferring into the rabbit. I use one pink, fluffy arm to awkwardly wipe away her tears. She calms slightly, but continues quietly sobbing nonetheless.

            For the first time since becoming like this, I wish I had the ability to speak. I wish I could tell her that people are simply that way – wolves in sheep’s clothing. I wish I could warn her about all the heartache to come. But I cannot, and I remain silent as ever. I think back to my own former life and uncle, and I feel my spirit break even further. Why can those wolves never be satisfied? Why must we all be tainted?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, we didn't get to finish our character stories in class since our teacher got sick and was out for the rest of the year. It's a shame since I really like my character and want to finish his story. If it's okay, I'd really appreciate it if you guys would comment with potential prompts below. I'm trying my best to really develop Martin in the short bursts I make and would love to hear your opinions on how I'm doing thus far. Thanks a bunch!

**Author's Note:**

> I wonder how many people I managed to scare off already? :3


End file.
